When I turned, I saw my aunt standing in the doorway. ‘What have you just threatened to do to my son?’ she asked, with a weak smile.
‘Rip his balls off.’
‘This may sound unmaternal, but I really hope you have the opportunity to do that soon. I fear you won’t, though. I fear. .’ Her voice broke, her shoulders slumped and she started to cry. To say that it took me aback is putting it mildly: in all my life I never saw my mother shed a tear, and her sister’s a pea from the same pod.
I held her to me and let her dampen my shoulder for a while. ‘I’m sorry, my dear,’ she whispered, when she had composed herself.
‘What the hell for?’
‘For being so soppy, for making a complete tit of myself in front of my nephew at those ruins, but most of all for being so damn presumptuous. It was outrageous of me to ask you to get involved in this. I’ll go to Seville myself, and find out what’s happened to Frank.’
It was as if her weakness had restored my strength. ‘Auntie Ade,’ I reminded her, ‘you’re that number you never use plus two years old, and if the heat gets to you here, it will kill you in Sevilla. My arrangements are made. I’ll go, and I’ll trust you not to do anything silly. If you do need anything, you can go to any of the people in the restaurants or shops: they’re all chums of ours. If something comes up when they’re closed, I have a friend called Alex Guinart. He’s a police officer, and you can rely on him.’
When she smiled again, the mischief was back. ‘A friend, eh. How close?’
‘Fairly. I’m godmother to his baby daughter, Marte.’
Nine
I had another blip in my resolve early next morning, when the time came to set out. If I had seen the slightest hint of a wobble in Tom’s chin when I told him to be a good boy and to look after his aunt as carefully as he looked after me, I swear I wouldn’t have gone.
But he was fine. It was as if he was looking forward to being shot of me for a few days. I backed the still-new Jeep carefully out of the garage, then saw him waving a brief goodbye before he stepped back inside to let me close the door with the remote.
I had been slightly wary of the airline called Clickair, but it was okay. I’ve never been a fan of on-board catering, so its absence didn’t bother me. The aircraft was clean, the flight was on time and that was all I cared about. My sister had asked me recently whether my near-death experience in New Jersey had made me a nervous flier. I told her that the opposite is true. The odds against being involved in a major incident (and that’s the bet we all make when the wheels leave the ground) are long enough to make us all feel secure, so the odds against one person being involved in two of them must be astronomical.
The airport in Sevilla is pretty compact for a major city, but I only had cabin baggage so I didn’t have to get involved with the carousel. Instead I walked straight out and found a line of taxis waiting. I climbed into the leader. The driver’s name was Tony; he made a point of telling me that all the cabs charged a flat fare from the airport to anywhere in the city, and that it was thirty-five euros. There was a notice in his cab that contradicted him by about ten euros on my side of the deal, but he was chatty and friendly as he drove me, through some very narrow streets, right to the door of Hotel Las Casas de los Mercaderes, so I handed over two twenties without a murmur.
I’d picked the place on the basis of its location, not stars, but it was central and pretty well appointed, even if there was a steel pillar in the middle of the room. (A design feature, I hoped, rather than a structural necessity.) I put thoughts of pole dancing to the back of my mind as I unpacked.
It was early afternoon, almost a full twenty-four hours before I was due to meet Lidia Bromberg, and I had a couple of things to do. The first involved a short stroll along the narrow Calle Alvarez Quintero, which was signed ‘For pedestrians only’, from the hotel on, although local rules seemed to extend that definition to take in cyclists and kids on roller-blades and skateboards. The number forty-seven wasn’t hard to find. It was above a double wooden door, painted a dark green. I rapped on it with my knuckles, and heard a hollow sound, but nobody came to answer. I tried the handle, but it was locked: a layer of dust gave me the impression that it wasn’t opened all that regularly. I looked, but saw neither bell-push nor knocker. There was a small brass rectangle that might have displayed the occupier’s name, but it was empty; no mention of anyone called Benitez. A letter slot was set into the door to the left: I knelt, raised its flap and peered through, into the total darkness of what I assumed was a mailbox.
Undeterred, I glanced around and saw a shop directly across the street, offering the usual tourist stuff that you find in the heart of every city. It was open and devoid of customers so I stepped inside. The man behind the counter was in his forties, not too clean, and with an appearance that was generally. . well, ‘crumpled’ is the kindest description that comes to mind. He gave me a bold, curious look, the kind that a certain type of man might direct at a lady, the one that starts at the legs and works its way up.
‘I wonder if you can help me,’ I began. ‘I have an appointment to meet someone this afternoon, and the address I was given is that one over there.’ I pointed at the dirty green door. ‘But it’s locked and it’s pretty clear there’s nobody in.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ he said. ‘That door is always locked when I am here. I guess the people who live there work during the day.’
‘So you don’t know them?’
‘No.’
‘That’s too bad. Thing is, I’ve never met the people I’m supposed to see. But I was given photographs.’ I took the images of Frank and George Macela from my bag and showed them to him. ‘I don’t suppose you recognise either of them.’
He looked at them, then shook his head firmly. ‘No, I don’t.’ He paused, then grinned, unexpectedly and lasciviously. ‘But don’t be too upset. I’m about to close. Maybe you could spend some time with me instead.’
Bloody hell! The guy thought I was a hooker. I said nothing, but stared at him long enough and hard enough for him to realise that he had made a big mistake. ‘No,’ he said again, a lot less comfortably. ‘But I have seen another man go in there once or twice. He never stays long, though.’
‘I guess I’ve been set up.’ I sighed. I turned to go, but paused as I opened the door. ‘Incidentally,’ I told him, ‘you couldn’t afford five minutes with me.’ He called me a rude name as I left.
There was a tapas bar two doors further on, with an empty window table that offered a clear view back towards number forty-seven; I occupied it and ordered coffee, with some croquettes and a little octopus salad. I had no real expectation that Frank might put in an appearance, but I had some thinking to do, and that was as good a place to do it as any.
I was toying with a piece of tentacle when a dark-haired man, dressed in a lightweight cream suit, and carrying a plastic supermarket bag, walked past the window, coming from behind so that his back was always towards me. He stopped, then stepped up to the drab door. I watched him as he unlocked it: he was about to open it when he looked over his shoulder, as if in response to a call. The creep from the shop sidled alongside him. As he spoke, I saw the newcomer’s right eyebrow rise, in profile, and then he shrugged. I still couldn’t see all of his face, but he was too tall to be Frank and looked about ten years too young to be George Macela.
I was trapped at my table, in clear view if the shop-owning lecher had glanced my way, but he didn’t. Instead, the visitor to number forty-seven patted him on the shoulder, as if he was thanking him, then watched as he went on his way in the opposite direction, mission accomplished. I had no doubt that he had been cliping on me. (That’s Scottish for ‘grassing me up’.)